Sherlock: Starry Night
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: Mycroft and Greg live in a small studio flat with their baby son. Their place is cramped, and they're not exactly rolling in money, but they wouldn't change anything. See warnings inside.
1. Painted Tattoo

**SHERLOCK**

**STARRY NIGHT**

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**Author's Note:**

**Pairing: **Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade

**Warnings: **Mild language, mentions of child abuse

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

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**Chapter One: Painted Tattoo**

Mycroft smiled as he walked into the flat. He could hear The Rolling Stones playing softly in the background, clanking pots, and a baby laughing. Noah was six and a half months old, and had just started laughing. He'd smiled a lot, but never laughed until a few weeks ago when Greg had done something ridiculous and made peels of laugher fall from the baby's mouth.

Since then the two had been doing everything they possibly could to make Noah laugh. He mostly did it when Greg was being weird; pulling faces, waggling toys (and his hips) around the place, and generally being the man Mycroft had fallen in love with.

Mycroft slung his leather jacket over the hook by the door, dropped his keys in the bowl sitting atop the small, narrow table, and leaned his newest finished painting against the wall. He then kicked his shoes off, and couldn't help but jog down the long hallway so he slid into the main room on his socks. Gregory was a bad influence on him.

They lived in a studio flat; one large room that made up the sitting room/bedroom/kitchen/small dining room, with a bathroom opposite the kitchen, and a small wooden staircase that led up to the overhanging space that had once held their bed and wardrobe.

Now it was Noah's space; all his toys, clothing, and cot were up there, and Greg and Mycroft had dragged their stuff downstairs to make it fit as best they could. It wasn't the biggest place- or the cleanest- but it had a lived-in feel that the Manor house Mycroft had grown up in didn't. Likewise, Greg's childhood home had been a shack, really, what with seven kids trying to live in a two-bedroom house.

Mycroft ran his eyes over the small space; they'd painted the walls white, having hated the light pink they'd been when they'd moved in. A strip of blue boarded by black had been Greg's way of trying to liven the place up. Like the miss-matched furniture, band posters, and clothes left lying all over the place didn't do that.

But it was home. That's all that mattered.

Mycroft spotted his spouse and son in the small kitchen. Noah was in his little bouncy-chair thing; it was circular, made of plastic, with bright coloured toys stuck all over it and a swing in the middle that let Noah sit up and bounce.

Greg was making dinner- some type of pasta, they'd lived on the stuff when they'd first run away from home- and it was a dish that brought back memories of cold nights curled up together on a bare mattress; of tears shed and fears shared over whether or not they'd done the right thing; early mornings eating stone-cold food because they had no electricity after working four days in a row because they needed the money.

Everything was different, now. Greg was smiling and laughing again, along with Noah, the little boy bouncing and slapping his hands against any available surface in a show of enjoyment.

Mycroft shuffled across the floorboards and Greg finally looked up from where he was holding his hand out, Noah sucking what looked like pasta sauce off of Greg's index finger.

'What have I told you about feeding the baby like that?' Mycroft asked as he got closer.

Greg flashed him a cheeky grin. 'What have I told _you _about walking around the flat in clothes, hmm?'

'Not in front of the baby,' was Mycroft's immediate response. He leaned over the counter to accept a warm, gentle kiss from his partner, who's grin turned goofy as they parted. 'And how's my favourite man?' Mycroft asked, bending to kiss Noah.

The baby grinned and flapped his hands about, making grabby-motions at his papa. Mycroft gave in and lifted his son from the swing, Noah immediately snuggling against him to mouth wet kisses to Mycroft's neck.

'And he loves you too,' Greg smiled and turned back to the pasta sauce he was heating up on the stove.

'Of course he does; look at me,' Mycroft responded.

Greg laughed. 'How was work?'

'How it usually is,' Mycroft answered, bouncing Noah in his arms. He was manager at the local pub, having worked his way up from bartender/waiter to where he was now, and also worked part-time as a painter; he could sell most of his paintings on street corners, but selling them to a studio was good for when they desperately needed money. Greg worked at the pub too, playing his guitar either solo or with local bands, and waiting tables when they had an extra shift. They were the first jobs they'd gotten when they'd moved to London, and the money wasn't great, but it was something.

They were both still on the lookout for better work; they had a son, now, and the amount of things he needed just to live comfortably was staggering. Plus, they needed a bigger place; the three couldn't co-exist happily in a small studio flat when Noah got bigger.

'No trouble?' was Greg's next question.

'No,' Mycroft shook his head. 'Has Noah eaten?'

'Waitin' for you,' Greg said and nodded at the bowl of warm water, filled with diced vegetables, that was sitting on the bench beside the blender.

Mycroft carried Noah over and started preparing the little man's dinner, Noah seeming comfortable slotted against Mycroft's chest. Greg and Mycroft traded stories about their days- Mycroft had wiped tables, Greg had played with Noah and gotten him to laugh _seventeen times_ (Greg definitely had the better day)- and soon enough the small family was sitting at their table eating dinner.

Mycroft fed Noah while Greg made cooing noises at him, and the red-head spent half his time laughing. Noah and Greg ate exactly the same way; laughing or babbling as they did, spilling sauce down their chins and shirts. Noah was a baby, he had an excuse- and a bib- Greg, not so much.

'Honestly, Gregory,' Mycroft sighed when his partner dragged a thumb through the sauce dripping down his cotton t-shirt.

'Wha'?' Greg mumbled, sucking his thumb. 'S'dirty already.'

'I spend half my time trying to scrub stains from your shirts.'

'And I spend half _my _time trying to get you out of _your_ shirts,' Greg said and pointed his fork at Mycroft. 'Which sounds like time better spent?'

Mycroft's lips tugged up into a smile, despite his best attempt to remain stony-faced. When they'd first met, back when they'd been stupid sixteen-year-olds trying to escape their home lives, Greg's gruff nature and rough exterior had made Mycroft's skin crawl. He grew on you, though, and once he'd gotten through Mycroft's coldness that was it; Mycroft was lost.

The blue-eyed man just shook his head, knowing a lost cause when he saw one, and went back to feeding Noah while trying to get his own dinner into his mouth. Unfortunately Noah seemed to find noodles extremely amusing and kept grabbing for them and shoving them into his mouth before Mycroft could stop him, laughing when Mycroft scowled. Greg laughed too.

Two hours after sitting down for dinner they were done, and Greg went to wash the dishes while Mycroft changed Noah's nappy and slid him into his little blue footsie pyjamas. They had guitars on them; when Greg had seen them he'd grabbed them, and Mycroft couldn't have talked him out of the purchase if he'd tried.

Mycroft was just putting Noah into his little cot when Greg joined him, a warm presence by Mycroft's side as the taller man tucked the baby in.

'He was good?' Mycroft whispered.

'Yeah,' Greg nodded, just as low; if they woke Noah up he'd be a terror to put back down.

Mycroft smiled and reached down to brush Noah's dark, slightly curly hair from his forehead. He was a Lestrade in every sense; dark hair, chocolate brown eyes, and an over-enthusiastic attitude about everything in life. But Mycroft hoped to impart some Holmesian onto him; books and deductions, multiple languages and a love for knowledge.

'Sherlock called today,' Greg said suddenly.

Well, _that _ruined Mycroft's mood.

He tensed and withdrew his hand from Noah's warm body, watching his son sleep for another minute before turning and walking down the stairs. Greg followed him; it wasn't like Mycroft could _hide_. Their flat had two rooms, and Mycroft didn't fancy spending the night in the small, cramped bathroom.

'Don't walk away, love,' Greg said.

Mycroft sighed as he flopped onto their double bed. The sheets hadn't been made, and Mycroft felt himself sink into the duvet; it smelled like Greg.

Greg waited patiently, sitting beside Mycroft and playing with his leather belt. Finally Mycroft sighed again and said, 'Why?'

'He wants to reconnect, you know that,' Greg said.

'He wants to shout at me for abandoning him to run off and play house with the local bit of rough,' Mycroft muttered. Sherlock's words, not his; shouted over and over again whenever Sherlock could get Mycroft on the phone.

They'd been close, once. Sherlock had been nine when Mycroft's troubles began; when Siger Holmes found out that his sixteen-year-old was gay and would never marry the Marsdens' pretty young girl Andrea. Father and son had deteriorated into shouting and throwing things, until Siger stepped it up a notch with shoves and punches.

Sherlock was ten, Mycroft seventeen, when the older brother finally had enough money to run from home with his boyfriend and try to make a life for himself in London. They hadn't spoken in four years. Their father had passed away last year, leaving Meghan Holmes to take care of thirteen-year-old Sherlock.

. Sherlock had, somehow, gotten Mycroft's number, and had been calling almost every day for six months.

Mycroft was inclined to blame the Lestrades. Greg's extended family still lived a few streets from Holmes Manor. Greg's youngest sister, Ryley, had gotten pregnant at sixteen, managed to track Greg down, and convinced Greg and Mycroft to raise her then unborn son, Noah. She'd signed away all rights, perfectly happy to be an aunt instead of a mother. She'd probably given Sherlock Greg's contact details.

So here Mycroft was. A twenty-one year-old father with a younger brother trying to reconnect. Mycroft would be all for it if their phone calls didn't always descend into shouting matches and accusations.

'He misses you,' Greg said.

'He hates me,' Mycroft corrected.

'He still loves you,' Greg said, and Mycroft noted that Greg didn't disagree with him. Sherlock definitely hated Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and brought both hands up to rub his eyes. He was too tired for this. 'I _might _call him tomorrow.'

'That's my boy,' Greg grinned brightly.

'I'm not making any promises,' Mycroft warned.

Greg shrugged bounced across the mattress to kiss him. 'Don't care, it's a start.'

'Please don't do that,' Mycroft groaned, pushing him away.

Greg pouted. 'Don't do what?'

'Say "that's my boy", to me,' Mycroft murmured as he sat up. 'You say that to Noah.' He yawned and stretched a bit- purposely to smirk when Greg's eyes immediately jumped to the sliver of skin revealed when his shirt hiked up- and stood, ambling towards the bathroom. He was too tired for a shower, but washing his face and brushing his teeth would be good enough.

When he walked back into the bedroom/sitting room Greg was changing into his own pyjamas- boxers and a large, clean t-shirt- and Mycroft paused to watch. Greg was still very fit; he'd played a lot of sport when he was younger, and waiting tables, taking care of a baby, and helping lug around musical equipment for an extra few quid had kept him in shape.

His muscles were defined under warm, tanned skin, a few freckles dotting his lower back from where he'd gotten sunburnt as a boy. He had a large scar across his left shoulder courtesy of his father's belt, and smaller scars from when he'd crawled under a wire fence running from the cops after stealing a bag of food from the local supermarket.

Mycroft knew those scares, those spots, those muscles; he'd explored them all with his lips and tongue and hands in the past six years. But his absolute favourite part of Greg's skin was the tattoo.

Greg had worked/stolen the money to pay for his tattoo. It started from halfway up his right arm and went all the way up to his right shoulder. It was a collection of smaller pictures, some Mycroft had designed, all morphing together to create a piece of art; a cricket bat across his forearm mixing with a dragon spewing fire; a guitar melding into music notes that actually read the chorus of Greg and Mycroft's song; the notes dancing around to his elbow, where thick black lines twisted and turned all the way up to his shoulder, branching out into red lines and Peter Rabbit and an intricate piece of Vincent van Gogh's _The Starry Night_.

Mycroft had drawn that, too; had mapped it out for the tattoo artist to ink onto Greg's skin. It took up most of Greg's shoulder, a beautiful mixture of blues and yellows. Greg had said that one day he wanted to get his other arm done with just that art. It was their favourite painting, a reminder of the nights they'd spent lying on the wet grass at the local park, hiding from their families and staring up into the sky as they spoke of a better future for the two of them.

Mycroft couldn't help but step forward, crossing the distance between them quickly. Greg made to put his shirt on but Mycroft stopped him with warm hands on his hips.

'Mm?' Greg hummed, turning only slightly so he could eye Mycroft.

'I love your tattoos,' Mycroft said, and that was all Greg needed.

He smiled and tilted his head. Mycroft pressed a kiss to his cheek, his lips, before kissing his coloured skin. He ran his hands up Greg's hips and sides, ghosting over his ribs before his fingertips touched the pictures needled into Greg's skin.

'I painted you something,' Mycroft said after tracing a swirl on Greg's bicep.

'Oh yeah?' Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, pressed one last kiss to Greg's shoulder, and went to get the painting he'd left by the door. When he got back Greg was in bed, unfortunately with a shirt on, but Mycroft dismissed that and instead turned the painting around so Greg could see it.

'Fuck, Myc,' Greg breathed and made grabby-hands for it (much like Noah did, they really were the same age). Mycroft handed the painting over and crawled into bed as Greg admired the new artwork.

Mycroft had never thought he was particularly talented, not until they went three days without eating and Greg convinced the red-head to sell some of the paintings he'd brought with them. The money they got for five pieces of artwork was enough to eat for a week after they stretched the budget. After that, Mycroft couldn't afford to be self-concious about his "talent"; he still couldn't, really.

The painting was of Greg... well, Greg's back. It showed him from neck to lower back, leaning against a white wall, his jeans sliding down to reveal the waistband of his pants. Rather than leave Greg's back smooth, Mycroft had painted _The Starry Night._

Each star and swirl of the sky looked like it had been tattooed onto Greg's back and over Greg's small imperfections, parts even curling around his hips and ribs. Mycroft had spent hours upon hours staring at a picture of _The Starry Night _to get it right, and many more hours after that painting the actual thing and doing touch-ups.

There was no special reason he had for doing it; it wasn't Greg's birthday, or an anniversary, or a make-up gift. When Mycroft painted, he needed two projects to work on. While he painted somebody's cat or a replica of a famous piece of art, he needed his own thing to work on so he could jump between the two projects and not get bored. It was just how Mycroft worked, so he'd decided to start this... for Greg.

'This is beautiful, Myc,' Greg breathed, eyes darting from the painting to land on Mycroft, only to slide right back again seconds later.

'I'm glad you like it,' Mycroft said.

'Like it?' Greg's eyes bulged. 'Fuckin' hell, Myc, I _love it_.' He suddenly stood, throwing the blankets- and nearly Mycroft- clear as he shuffled down the mattress. He grabbed a framed picture of Radio Head that was hanging at the end of their bed and replaced it with the painting. Greg jumped off the bed to stare at it, eyeing the thing critically, before nodding to himself and placing the Radio Head frame on the kitchen table. 'Fuckin' love you,' Greg said when he came back to bed and pounced on Mycroft.

Mycroft laughed and kissed him back as he wrapped his arms and legs around his partner. Greg grinned against his mouth, and they enjoyed a few good minutes of snogging until Mycroft yawned.

'Stupid body,' he muttered when Greg pulled back. 'No, don't go!' he whined.

Greg snorted and nuzzled Mycroft's neck with his nose, pressing a kiss to the flushed skin when he was done. 'Tomorrow, when you're rested and Noah takes his nap, I am gonna _fuck you until you scream_.'

'Can't scream with Noah here,' Mycroft said.

'Scream into a pillow,' Greg growled. Mycroft smirked. 'Hey, let's sleep the opposite way, 'kay?'

Some nights they laid the opposite way on their bed so they could look out the only window their flat had. They'd look up at the night sky- or day, their schedules were subject to change- and talk like they had when they were younger, more naive, less world-wary.

Mycroft moved their pillows and Greg tugged their blanket around until it was perfectly spread out. They crawled under and got comfortable, Greg with his head on Mycroft's shoulder, their limbs slotted together. The couple went silent as they stared out the window. There weren't many stars, being in the heart of London, but if they squinted and pretended they could see whole constellations and maybe a planet.

'I'll call Sherlock back tomorrow,' Mycroft murmured.

'M'kay,' Greg hummed. 'Where'd the change of heart come from?'

Mycroft was silent a few seconds before saying, 'When he was six, he wanted to know all about the solar system. He made me research every planet and star and galaxy so I could explain it to him. We poured through all the information we could get for hours every afternoon, and almost every night we took his telescope out onto the grounds so we could star gaze.'

He paused to shuffle through his thoughts, his feelings, before speaking again.

'Two months later he told me he'd deleted it all because he wanted to learn about bees. Days of research and time spent together just _gone_.' Mycroft's voice cracked and Greg rubbed a warm hand over his stomach. 'I want to teach Noah all of that, too,' Mycroft said softly. 'Because even though Sherlock doesn't remember, _I _do. And maybe Noah will remember. If he doesn't-'

'You will,' Greg finished for him. 'And that's good enough.'

Mycroft nodded. 'I'm used to being there for people, but them not being there for me.' He squeezed Greg's shoulder. 'Except for you.'

''Cause I'm awesome,' Greg grinned.

Mycroft smiled and took the out; Greg knew he didn't like talking about his childhood, so he made a joke. Greg was the same... they really were perfect for each other.

'You're a brat, is what you are,' Mycroft said.

'Mr Holmes, I am _offended_!' Greg announced loudly. Mycroft shushed him and they spent a good five minutes straining their ears to see if Noah had woken.

He hadn't, and by the time they settled down again Mycroft's exhaustion had caught up with him. He yawned again and Greg murmured, 'Go to sleep, Myc. I'll rock your world tomorrow, 'kay?'

'Okay,' Mycroft replied and kissed the top of his head. He took one last look through the window, at the stars he knew were there but invisible to him, and closed his eyes, Greg a warm presence beside him

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**Auth****or's Note: **A mixture of Tumblr and me remembering the van Gogh episode of Doctor Who... also energy drinks; lots and lots and LOTS of energy drinks. Cigarettes, too. Kids, don't smoke, it ain't cool!

Anywho, hope you enjoyed this random piece of random I wrote.

**Update: **I have, one again, turned a one-shot into a multi-chapter story. DAMN YOU, JOHNNY!

Cheers,

{IDreamer}


	2. Don't Guess, Deduce

**Chapter Two: Don't Guess, Deduce**

'His name is Noah.'

'And?'

'And I thought you might like to know the name of your nephew.'

'He's Lestrade's nephew, not mine.'

'He's our son.'

'No, he's not.'

'Blood doesn't make a family, Sherlock.'

'And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Mycroft?'

Mycroft sighed and reached for his coffee. It was too early for this... or too late, he was a little fuzzy at the moment. Mycroft had been up two nights before with Noah, who was sick- it was _impossible_ to sleep through a baby's congested coughs when said baby was basically in the same room. Before that he'd had a double shift at _Ryan's_, the pub where he worked.

After eight solid hours taking care of a baby, he'd had to pull an all-nighter at the art studio to get a portrait of some woman's daughter done. To top it all off, Gregory was falling ill, catching the cold Noah had, and Mycroft was so _very _close to dropping from sheer exhaustion. He really wasn't equiped to deal with Sherlock.

His brother had grown significantly. He'd had a growth spurt, putting him at Mycroft's chest instead of his stomach. Sherlock had been ten the last time he and Mycroft had spoken face-to-face. He was fourteen now, and still had some growing to do, but he'd definitely grown up.

Matured, no. He was still a sarcastic little brat who apparently smoked and drank copious amounts of coffee. It didn't surprise Mycroft, really. Sherlock had probably learned those habits from him and decided to adopt them when he hit puberty.

The two sat in silence, which wasn't unusual now. This was only the second time they'd met in person since Sherlock had started calling Mycroft after four years of silence. The first time they hadn't even got their drinks before Sherlock had started shouting and Mycroft had walked out. In the past, when they were young, Sherlock would find Mycroft wherever he'd hidden and they'd pretend it didn't happen. It was harder now that Sherlock couldn't simply follow Mycroft to his hiding spot. But they were apparently still practicing the "ignoring" part.

Well, until they started arguing again.

'When did our relationship sour?' Mycroft mused outloud.

'When you decided to run off to fuck knows where with your bit of rough!' Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft had heard those words dozens of times, so they didn't faze him. Maybe Sherlock was too young, or simply ignoring (or deleting) what had happened _before _Mycroft started dating Gregory. Maybe he'd forgotten Mycroft hiding his sexuality and freaking out because he wanted to be _normal _and not disappoint the family. Maybe he'd deleted Siger Holmes finding out and shouting, pushing, _hitting _Mycroft to stop making him a fairy. Maybe he was simply ignoring the fact that without Gregory, Mycroft would either be stuck in a loveless marriage with a woman, or dead.

So many maybes, and Mycroft would probably never get an answer. Sherlock was too young, too stubborn, to ever have a completely honest coversation with his estranged big brother.

Sherlock slouched down in his seat until his head was resting on the back. He'd already had two coffees- he'd guzzled them down quickly, apparently not caring how hot they were- and was currently on his third. Mycroft was on his second... well, his second since meeting with Sherlock, his thirtieth since he'd gotten up three days ago.

'Can we sit outside?' Sherlock suddenly said. 'I want a cigarette.'

Mycroft didn't bother answering, just rose and grabbed his cardboard cup. Sherlock followed and they relocated to the outdoor seating, Sherlock immediately digging through the pocket of his ridiculously large coat to pull out a packet of cigarettes. He didn't offer Mycroft one, not that Mycroft was surprised. He pulled his own cigarettes out and lit one with his own lighter, watching Sherlock eye him from across the table.

He and Gregory had started smoking together, had quit together a dozen times because food was more important than a packet of smokes, and of course they'd started again together when they had the money. Mycroft was still trying to quit, but he had an addictive personality, much like Sherlock.

The brothers were silent as they smoked, looking at the people walking past, their coffees and the ashtray, anything that wasn't the other. Sherlock had been the one to engineer this meeting- well, him and Gregory, who apparently thought Mycroft needed to fix the relationship- so it was _Sherlock _who should be trying to speak, trying to start a conversation.

Then again, Mycroft was the big brother; he was the one who'd run away and shattered what remained of their relationship. He hadn't been very helpful so far; he'd ignored half of Sherlock's calls, had screamed at him half the time he _had _picked up, and when they'd finally met in person he'd walked out. He couldn't really blame Sherlock for being a brat.

'How's school?' Mycroft decided to ask as he lit his second cigarette. School was a safe subject.

'Dull,' Sherlock answered in a bored tone.

Apparently not.

'The course work or the people?' Mycroft enquired.

'Both,' Sherlock sniffed, rolling his fag between two long, pale fingers. 'Mother won't let me move ahead; she doesn't want me to graduate, and leave home, too young.'

Mycroft felt the stab right in the heart and swallowed thickly. Sherlock hadn't asked if Mycroft wanted to speak to Mummy during any of his phone calls. Maybe he didn't care if Mycroft and Meghan started speaking again or not. Or, maybe, he knew that Mycroft would refuse. The woman had stood by and let Siger Holmes call Mycroft a _fag_, a _disgrace_, _unnatural._ She'd stood by while Mycroft fell apart and started spending more and more time away from home. She'd stood by and watched as Siger pushed, slapped, _punched _Mycroft for being gay.

She'd stood by and watched her eldest son break.

Mycroft couldn't forgive her for that. Maybe in twenty years, when he was older, and had been a parent himself for a longer period of time.

Maybe.

'How's work?' Sherlock asked suddenly and Mycroft looked at him, blue eyes meeting identical blue. Was Sherlock actually _trying_?

'Fine,' Mycroft answered carefully. 'Bartending gives me a chance to deduce people, sometimes for extra tips; people see it as a party trick. Painting clears my mind and brings in more money.'

Sherlock nodded stiffly and ashed his cigarette in the silver tray provided by the coffee shop. 'And Lestrade?'

'He waits tables at the pub when they've got an extra shift, or someone calls in sick,' Mycroft told his brother. 'Otherwise he does odd jobs around the city or plays his guitar in pubs, for other bands, on the street.'

'And you're happy with that?' Sherlock asked. 'Both of you?'

'Yes,' Mycroft answered immediately.

Sherlock frowned and stared hard at the table, smoke curling above his head as he rolled his cigarette. 'You could have had more, Mycroft,' he said softly, and Mycroft had to lean forward slightly to catch his words. 'You could have gone to university, gotten a degree, a good job; money, a house, friends... everything.'

'I wasn't happy, Sherlock,' Mycroft said simply. 'I was suffocating.'

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. 'Was it really so bad that you'd run away, with barely any money, to live in a strange city? To work in pubs and on street corners?'

Mycroft was silent as he processed his brothers words. For the first time in four years, he realised... maybe Sherlock _didn't _know the full story. Maybe he didn't know how far their father had gone, just how far Mycroft had fallen before Gregory had suggested an escape.

Maybe Sherlock had made a leap, had guessed, rather than making a deduction. Mycroft had taught Sherlock how to put a person's life together from trivial pieces of information, and he wasn't sure if Sherlock had continued to study and practice after he'd left.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft asked, 'Sherlock, why do you think I left home?'

'Ran away,' Sherlock corrected.

'Ran away,' Mycroft echoed with an eye roll.

'You hated us and wanted to be with your boyfriend,' Sherlock answered immediately.

Mycroft sighed. Fuck, Sherlock _actually _believed that.

'Lockie-'

'Don't!' Sherlock snapped, blue eyes cold as they flicked to Mycroft's.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft ammended, 'I didn't leave home because I hated you.'

'Why, then?' Sherlock demanded and stubbed his cigarette out viciously.

Mycroft leaned back and sipped his coffee, then took a drag of his own cigarette as he sorted through his thoughts. It seemed like years and years ago that Gregory had first suggested that they run, but really it was little over four years ago. They'd discussed it for a few weeks before settling on the idea, and exactly one month later they'd packed everything they wanted and could carry and left without a word.

Mycroft had never known if his parents had looked for him. Gregory's probably hadn't. His father had been in and out of the house, working some months and blowing all his cash on drugs the next. His mum had given up when Gregory was about eight, leaving his eldest brother to take care of all the kids.

Things had gotten better and worse in different ways, from what Ryley had told Greg when they'd met to discuss adopting Noah. Liam, the eldest, had disappeared about a year after Greg did. A year after that the twins, Daniel and Joshua, moved into a small flat on the opposite side of town after Daniel got his girlfriend pregnant. Apparently they were all living together with Daniel's girlfriend and Greg's neice, Kerry.

Beth, Ross and Ryley were the last ones left, and Beth had gotten a job at the local library. She'd eventually moved out of home and rented a small flat near their childhood home and taken Ryley with her. Then Ryley got pregnant, and Noah had arrived. Ross was still living at home according to Ryley, though he was mostly in and out of the house, spending most nights roaming the streets with his friends.

So the Lestrades were all over the place, but Gregory wasn't shocked. His family had a habbit of running off all the time. The three youngest seemed to be the only ones who could stay in one place, and even Greg had taken off when he was seventeen. So he was't exactly the best example of his family's stability. Still, he and Mycroft had been in London for four years, and Gregory had no plans to leave.

Mycroft's family, on the other hand, had lived in the Manor where Mycroft had grown up for three generations. Three generations of stuck-up, posh, bigoted arseholes who thought they could beat the queer out of their sons. Sherlock had never been around when Siger had screamed. Siger knew better than to have any witnesses, apart from Meghan, and his wife never did anything to help Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, and Sherlock still wanted an answer. Would the truth change anything?

'Father found out I was gay,' he found himself saying, and kept his eyes on his coffee. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one, deciding he needed the extra dose of nicotine to get him through the conversation. 'He wasn't happy, to put it mildly,' Mycroft continued. 'At first he screamed. Then he pushed. _Then_... I think you can see where I'm going with this, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's eyes had widened slightly, enough that Mycroft could see the surprise raging through his body. 'He...' Sherlock swallowed, 'he hit you?'

Mycroft inclined his head. 'It got worse when he found out about Gregory... a few of the boys from our school spread it around after we were caught snogging behind the lunch hall. Siger heard it from one of the other parents, and...' He trailed off and took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting Sherlock draw the conclusions he needed.

'That's why you left?' Sherlock asked.

'Gregory was having a rough time at home, too,' Mycroft said. 'He suggested we run, more as a joke than anything. But when things got worse... we figured nothing could be as bad as what we were living through. If we starved on the streets, at least it wouldn't be because our fathers had hit too hard, or hadn't stopped when they normally did. We'd be ourselves, living how we wanted, not ashamed or afraid of who we were.'

Mycroft paused and sipped his coffee again, more for the break it offered than the liquid. His stomach was churning and he realised he should have eaten something before smoking three cigarettes in quick succession.

He could see Sherlock's mind whirring into life, the cogs clunking as he raced through everything. Sherlock didn't have an eidetic memory, not like Mycroft, but when he _did _remember something, he remembered it with sharp clarity. If he'd retained the memories from when Mycroft had run away, he was no doubt comparing it to the new information.

'Mother?' Sherlock asked after a long beat, looking up at Mycroft slowly.

'Stood by and watched,' Mycroft said simply, bitterness creeping into his tone. He didn't think he could _ever _forgive her for watching Siger throw him into a table and doing nothing to try and stop it.

Sherlock wet his lips slowly and sipped his own coffee, grimacing as the drink hit his stomach. He pushed the cup away and frowned hard at it.

'You didn't say goodbye.'

Mycroft closed his eyes. He remembered the night he'd run. Gregory was waiting on his bike- he'd saved for _years _to buy the crappy thing, and it had died two weeks after they got to London- Siger and Meghan asleep, Sherlock curled up in his bed, looking so very _young_. Mycroft had debated waking his brother to say goodbye, but knew questions would be asked, and Sherlock would probably have woken their parents. No, Gregory and Mycroft had to get as far away as they could before anyone realised they were gone.

'I wanted to,' Mycroft admitted quietly, eyes still closed. 'But you wouldn't have let me go. You would have woke Meghan and Siger.'

Sherlock nodded jerkily, understanding flashing through his eyes, bitterness quickly following. There was nothing Mycroft could do to make up for the past. He'd done what he thought was best for himself. He hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock with Siger, but Sherlock hadn't yet hit puberity, and the chances of him being gay too were slim. If he passed his subjects and didn't cause too much trouble, he'd be safe.

Mycroft couldn't offer him that. Not then, not now, maybe not ever.

'I see,' Sherlock eventually settled on saying and slouched back in his seat. The two fell into silence, passing the time by smoking, people-watching, and mulling over their conversation. Eventually Sherlock cleared his throat and Mycroft looked at him. 'Noah, did you say?'

Mycroft nodded.

'And... you've formally adopted him? Legally?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said. 'We had to pass an inspection by child services, as well as appear in court. Ryley signed over all her rights and Gregory and I legally adopted Noah after we were deemed fit parents and granted custody.'

'I see,' Sherlock repeated, though this time his eyes were slightly lighter, less pained. 'Do you plan on teaching him how to deduce people?'

Mycroft raised a slim eyebrow.

'I remember everything you taught me,' Sherlock said. 'Deducing people, it's... it's not something I can switch off.'

'I know,' Mycroft said. He'd tried, in the past. When people had bullied him for what he could see, he _tried _to stop it. But he couldn't. He saw everything whether he wanted to or not.

'Are you going to teach Noah?' Sherlock asked.

'I'll try,' Mycroft said, 'but if it doesn't take, I'll still be happy. As long as Noah's happy, healthy, and safe, I'll be proud.'

'Unlike Father?'

'Unlike Siger.'

Sherlock noted that Mycroft didn't refer to either parent as Mother or Father, but he brushed it aside. 'He's a Lestrade, though,' he pointed out.

'I don't think people are necessarily born intelligent, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. 'Yes, some are born with signficant advantages to others, like a quicker thought process, a knack for mathematics, etcetera. But everybody can be taught, if they apply themselves.'

Sherlock just nodded, clearly not agreeing with his brother. He was only fourteen, though; Mycroft doubted he'd agree with anybody at his current age... he probably wouldn't agree with anybody at any age, he was still a stubborn little bastard.

'Full name?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

'Noah Ryley Lestrade-Holmes,' Mycroft answered.

'Birthday?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I'm his uncle,' Sherlock explained, 'I want to make sure he learns properly, and doesn't pick up too many mannerisms from Lestrade.'

Mycroft snorted and shook his head. 'April 14th,' he said. He was grinning inwardly; Sherlock had acknowledged that he was Noah's uncle. That was a step forward.

'That woman, over there,' Sherlock said and pointed to a tall red-headed woman in a blue business suit. 'She's on the phone to her brother.'

'Lover,' Mycroft corrected.

Sherlock looked at him.

'Notice how she's playing with her hair?' Mycroft said and waited until Sherlock was looking at her before speaking again. 'A lot of women do that when they're flirting, or interested, in a possible sexual partner. She also keeps smoothing down her jacket and skirt, and she's making sure her lipstick is neat.'

'But she's on the phone; he can't see her.'

'True, but they're habits. She does the same thing when she's with him, and it transfers over when she's on the phone; like when you nod, despite the fact that the person on the other end of the phone can't hear you; force of habit, a reflex.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, still looking at the woman.

'If it was a sibling, her entire body language would be different,' Mycroft continued. 'You jumped to the conclusion that it was her brother based on too little facts. She could have been speaking to a sister, an aunt, a mother; don't guess, Sherlock, _deduce_.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but tried harder next time, and got it mostly right. He grinned smugly under Mycroft's praise, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile. Maybe their relationship was salvagable after all.

Sherlock called him a twat five minutes later.

But that wasn't anything unusual, so Mycroft called him a brat and moved on.

The brothers sat at the small coffee shop, drinking caffeine, eating muffins, and deducing what they could about the people around them. The air had lifted; there was still an underlying tension, a palpable struggle to their relationship, but after four years it was to be expected.

A few hours spent together in relative comfort was a step forward.

* * *

**Author's Note: **... so... I, uh... remember that time, in the last chapter, when I said this was a one-shot? Yeah... I'm a fucking liar. See, the thing is, I had coffee, and listened to punk-rock music, and that gets Johnny rolling, and I randomly write Holmes brothers bonding/angsting.

So... I have no idea if there will be any more to this story, I really don't. But I wrote this. So there.

And even as I review this, I'm getting ideas for another chapter. Fuck it.

Cheers,

{Dreamer}


	3. The Paths We Took

**Chapter Three: The Paths We Took**

* * *

**Author's Note: **BAM, another chapter! I now have a vague idea of where this story is going... a very vague idea. But that's better than what I had when I wrote chapter two, so... yay! Anywho, thank you for all your wonderful reviews, I appreciate them all.

Also, there's some fabulous fan art for this story by the wonderful **qed221b** that can be found here; qed221b ["dot"] tumblr ["dot"] com / post / 50721270998 / just-a-few-illustrations-for-the-wonderful . Obviously, just replace the ["dots"] with the symbol, and take out the spaces, and you should be good to go.

Enjoy,

{Dreamer}

* * *

Mycroft was actually surprised when Sherlock took him up on his offer. He'd thought Sherlock would bolt, like usual, or sneer at Mycroft's attempt to mend their relationship. Instead he shrugged and said, 'Sure, why not?' and climbed into the cab with Mycroft. Usually Mycroft- and Greg- took the bus or tube to their destinations, only using cabs when it was late or they were in a rush. The bus and tube were both cheaper, and the past four years had taught them both to save every scrap of money they got their hands on.

But it didn't seem wise to put Sherlock on a bus full of people, so a taxi it was.

The trip was taken in silence, both staring out their windows; Mycroft gripping the umbrella he took almost everywhere, Sherlock tapping at his denim-clad thigh.

Mycroft had to wonder what Sherlock would think of the small flat he and Greg lived in. Sherlock lived in a large Manor house that had twelve bedrooms, five bathrooms, sprawling dining rooms and living rooms and grounds you could drive a car around. Mycroft shared a small space with his boyfriend and son, and had boxes stacked in corners full of the books, CDs, and other objects they couldn't find space for. The bed was tucked into one corner, a TV system against the opposite wall with a small sofa and armchair sitting before it.

Mycroft wasn't ashamed of his home. It was the first place he and Greg had been able to rent, the owner of the building a nice older woman who took one look at them and let them move in immediately. Before that they'd slept in crappy hotels with questionable stains and even more questionable patrons, and had even spent a good two weeks camping out in parks, alleys, and shelters. Mycroft knew what it was like to sleep on cold concrete or hard wood; knew what it was like to fear for your possessions, your life, your _partner's life_. A small studio flat was a hell of a lot better than a cardboard box wrapped in newspaper behind an overflowing skip bin.

The flat, though small, was Mycroft's _home_. It was a place where he could take shelter from harsh London winters. He could kiss his boyfriend, hold his hand, without fearing that someone would try to rough him up for it. He could cook lumpy pasta and live off toast for two weeks and try and add rice to everything to make the food last longer, without anyone judging him or saying he'd made poor life decisions.

The Manor was big, beautiful, spacious; it was cold, empty, _lonely_. The flat was freedom, was home, was where Mycroft had felt safe for the first time in his short life. If Sherlock had a problem with it, Mycroft honestly wouldn't care. Mycroft loved it.

The taxi pulled up before the building and Mycroft carefully counted out the correct change, thanking the driver as he climbed out. Sherlock was already standing on the pavement, his hands stuffed into his large coat pockets as he stared up at the building. Mycroft let his brother stare for about a minute before walking forward, eager to get out of the chill. Sherlock followed.

The building was three storeys, with three flats on the ground floor, three on the second, and two on the third. Mycroft and Greg's flat was on the second floor, and Mycroft could see Sherlock eyeing the stairs, the wallpaper, the ceiling, as they walked up the flight of steps. He didn't say anything, though; just turned left on the landing and slid his key into the lock.

It opened with a click and Mycroft ushered Sherlock in, telling him to hang his coat up, take his shoes off, and follow Mycroft down the hall.

Sherlock froze in the hallway entrance, but Mycroft paid him no attention. His entire focus was on Noah, who Greg was bouncing on his stomach.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft asked instead of saying hello.

Greg tilted his head back and grinned upside down at his boyfriend. 'Showing Noah that Daddy doesn't have a belly, unlike _some _people believe.'

Mycroft smirked. A few days previously he'd commented that if Greg kept eating the chocolate one of his band mate's, Alan, kept sneaking him, he'd grow pudgy. There was no chance of that happening; the two worked enough to work off whatever food they did consume, and they only ever ate when they were hungry. There was never any chocolate or ice-cream in the Lestrade-Holmes household unless it was somebody's birthday.

'I was joking, love,' Mycroft said as he approached.

'I know, darling,' Greg responded and tilted his head up for a kiss.

Mycroft obliged before reaching out for Noah, who was drooling and trying to bounce on Greg's stomach again, hands grabbing for Mycroft.

'Look, Papa's home,' Greg said and handed the baby across. Mycroft easily lifted Noah into his arms and Greg rolled onto his stomach before propping himself up on his arms. He spotted Sherlock, still standing in the entryway, and said, 'And Papa brought home a stray.'

Mycroft snorted, but made no comment. Gregory had talked on the phone with Sherlock more often than Mycroft had, but seeing each other in person was different. The week previously Mycroft had revealed to Sherlock that he and Greg had run away because their parents were abusive; Sherlock had thought they'd run because they wanted to be together, or because they hated their families. For a long time Sherlock had been living with false information, and Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about Gregory now. He still hated Mycroft, so there was a good chance he hated Mycroft's spouse too.

Finally, Sherlock, having run his sharp blue eyes over the small flat, looked at Gregory. 'Lestrade.'

'Sherlock,' Greg replied, voice neutral. 'What brings you to our humble abode?'

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the last two words, and Mycroft watched Greg tense. Thankfully Sherlock just shrugged and said, 'Mycroft invited me.'

'Did he?' Greg asked and looked at his boyfriend.

'I didn't think he'd say yes,' Mycroft mumbled. He broke off into chuckles when Noah got a hold of his collar and stuffed it, and half of his fist, into his mouth. He beamed at Mycroft as he did, like he'd accomplished something great, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile in response.

'He's been doin' that all day,' Greg said, his attention drawn back to his family. 'Gummed my ear for a good five minutes before I pried the little vampire off.'

Mycroft smiled. 'That's just his way of showing love.'

'Right...so he loves me, but only loves your shirt,' Greg grinned. He sat up and kissed Noah's cheek loudly, making the baby huff out a laugh. 'I knew Daddy was your favourite!'

'Don't be absurd,' Mycroft sniffed. 'Clearly _I'm _his favourite.'

'Oh yeah? Who says?'

'Noah,' Mycroft said and looked down at their son. 'Isn't that right, Noah?'

'_Gurhh_,' Noah replied, drooling all over his fist and Mycroft's shirt.

'See?' Mycroft said. He looked pointedly at Greg. 'That was clearly, "_Yes, Papa, you're my absolute favourite father_".'

'No,' Greg shook his head, 'that was, "_Da, get this lunatic away from me, I love you the most!_"'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, Greg snickered, and Noah drooled some more.

Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly and the two older men looked at him. 'That's the baby, then?' he asked. 'The one your sister dumped?'

Greg got to his feet quickly and rubbed his hands together, as though getting rid of dirt. 'Listen here, mate, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once,' Greg said, staring at Sherlock. 'You wanna be welcomed here? You don't talk shit about my kid. You keep your opinions to yourself; we don't care where Noah came from, he's _our son_. So say shit to me, to Mycroft- hell, scream at our neighbours and make scathing remarks about our flat if it gets you off. But you _don't _say anything hurtful to my son, or I'll fuck you up, I don't care who's fuckin' brother you are.'

Greg paused to make sure his point was drilled into Sherlock's head.

'Got it?'

Silence descended, so thick Mycroft was sure he could cut it with a butter knife. A full two minutes passed before Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded once, sharply.

'Good,' Greg said and a grin spread across his face. 'You stayin' for dinner, then?'

He turned his back on Sherlock, apparently not waiting for an answer, and headed for the kitchen.

'What are we having?' Mycroft asked as he stood too and went to the sofa.

'Curry and rice; chicken's almost outta date, and we gotta use the last of that sauce,' Greg said from the kitchen. 'Figured we could heat it up tomorrow for dinner, take leftovers to work and shit.'

'Sounds good,' Mycroft replied and sat, moving Noah around to make sure the baby was comfortable.

There were four main food groups in the Lestrade-Holmes household; pasta, bread, curry, and baby food. Pasta and curry could be frozen and re-heated, and they could mix different vegetables and rice into it to make it last longer, or make it taste different.

Bread was good for toast and sandwiches and could be frozen, so they always had at least two loaves in the freezer in case they were every tight on money. More than once they'd gotten few shifts and used all their money on rent and bills, and therefore had lived off peanut butter, and later plain, toast for weeks at a time.

More than half their vegetables and perishables went towards Noah's dinner. They made sure Noah's food was fresh and healthy. When a use by date rolled around, or passed, Greg and Mycroft threw it into their own dinner or lunch.

Sherlock still seemed a bit lost after Gregory's deceleration, still standing just before the hallway, looking around.

'You can sit, Sherlock,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock twitched but then nodded and walked across the short distance to sit in the armchair. It was old, like most of their furniture, and bright blue. Greg had nicked it from out the front of a house across the city four months after they'd moved in. He'd convinced a band-mate, Mick, to load it into his van and drive it to their flat in exchange for Greg preforming a free gig with Mick's band.

It was the first piece of furniture they'd owned, and Mycroft and Greg had spent days curled up together on it telling each other stories to pass the time (and share body heat, because this was before they'd had enough blankets to keep comfortable during winter).

Mycroft tilted his head slightly as he looked down at Noah- still happily spreading saliva all over Mycroft's white shirt- and then at the couch he was sitting on. Everything in the flat had a history; the couch had been given to them by a neighbour, who'd actually nicked a practically brand new one from the same neighbourhood Greg had gotten their armchair from.

Their dining room table used to belong to Mrs Carter, their landlady, and she'd given it to them for free after her son had bought her a new one. Two of their chairs matched, the other two were hard plastic and had been picked out of a skip bin behind a McDonalds.

Greg had stumbled across their wardrobe and dresser dumped in an alley, and a quick clean had made them ready for use. Their pots and pans, their plates and bowls and cutlery, all bought from second hand stores, stolen from fast food restaurants, or taken from various bars they'd had lunch or dinner at.

Half of their clothes were second-hand, having been bought from charity shops or donated by their various colleagues. Only the uniforms they had to wear when working at _Ryan's _were brand new, as well as their underwear and socks and a few shirts.

Even most of Noah's things were second-hand; stuff Ryley had taken from the Lestrade family home; stuff Greg's many siblings had used before Noah got them. Some of the toys and books were brand new, and most his clothing Mycroft and Greg had saved weeks to buy. Noah needed new things; deserved new things. Greg and Mycroft were fine with second hand clothing.

Mycroft tilted his head up to look at his brother. His coat was brand new, his jeans bright with colour, shirt perfectly ironed, runners still white. Everything Sherlock owned was clearly new. Mycroft had forgotten what it was like to have everything you wanted because you had the money.

How times had changed them; how choices had led them down two very different paths.

Sherlock seemed to have finally gotten over Greg's words, because now he was staring at Noah.

'Can I help you?' Mycroft asked.

'How old is he, again?' Sherlock questioned.

'Almost seven months,' Mycroft replied. 'He's just started teething.'

'He chews on _everything_!' Greg shouted from the kitchen. 'Got my bloody mobile around lunch, nearly gnawed off a goddamn button.'

'Any damage?' Mycroft asked.

'A bit of the hash button's missing,' Greg replied. 'I got the chunk out before he swallowed it.'

'Naughty boy,' Mycroft tutted at Noah, who blinked up at him with large chocolate brown eyes. Mycroft sighed. 'That's not fair.'

'Haha! The Lestrade eyes best you again!' Greg cowed triumphantly.

'Shut up!' was Mycroft's reply.

Sherlock watched with morbid fascination; he seemed to find their behaviour- and the thought of a baby trying to chew a mobile phone to death- disgusting. At the same time, his curiosity was leaking over, making him shift forward in the armchair to look at Noah carefully.

'Would you like to hold him?' Mycroft asked.

'He bites,' Greg warned. 'And if you say anythin' to him, remember my earlier warning.'

'He's seven months old; I doubt he'll understand what I'm saying,' Sherlock replied.

'I don't give a flying monkey what you think, Sherlock,' Greg snapped at him. 'My kid, my rules; got that, sunshine?'

Sherlock just nodded and Mycroft smirked. Gregory was fiercely protective of Noah. Not that Mycroft wasn't, but the red-head handled himself better. Whenever anyone looked at Noah Greg gave them some version of the speech he'd given Sherlock. Mycroft was dreading a time when Noah started dating. Even if he was straight, the future girlfriends wouldn't escape Gregory's speech.

'Why did you name him Noah?' Sherlock asked, tilting his head. Noah was staring at him, brown eyes wide, completely fascinated by the new human being in his home. Mycroft and Greg didn't really get a lot of visitors, unless you counter their landlady and the odd neighbour wanting some milk.

'Gregory liked the name,' Mycroft shrugged. 'I didn't see anything wrong with it.'

'And he has his mother's name as his middle name, correct?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded, but it was Greg who said, 'Well, she's his biological mother, now his aunt, so we wanted to honour her in some way. And Ryley's a unisex name.'

Sherlock nodded along, and Mycroft wondered if he'd remember this, or delete it. He might choose to remember and try and study Noah's progress; he'd expressed an interest in teaching Noah how to deduce people. Then again, he might find Noah completely boring and wipe his mind clear of anything important.

Mycroft sincerely hoped he didn't do the latter. Noah needed at least one uncle who wasn't either in trouble with the police, taking care of his own kid, or in another country (for all they knew, Greg's eldest brother was on the fucking moon; he'd disappeared more thoroughly than Gregory and Mycroft did).

'He looks exactly like Lestrade,' Sherlock commented. 'Brown eyes, a milk chocolate colour. Brown hair, already curling. He has Lestrade's nose and ears, too.'

'If you remember, most of the Lestrade siblings all looked alike,' Mycroft said.

'Every single one of us had brown eyes,' Greg nodded. 'Though Dan and Josh have blonde hair, like Mum. And Beth's is dirty blonde. Liam's a fucking ginger; not sure he's even a Lestrade.'

'It wouldn't surprise me,' Sherlock murmured. Greg still heard him; the flat was rather small.

'No need to hide how you really feel, Sherlock!' Greg growled.

Sherlock immediately hunched his shoulders, preparing for shouting, or scolding, or... whatever it was Gregory was going to do.

Mycroft barked out a laugh. 'Gregory, don't be mean.'

Sherlock frowned at his brother, while across the flat Greg chuckled. 'Sorry, Sherlock; can't help myself.'

'What are you talking about?' Sherlock demanded, looking angry.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock, there are _seven _of us,' Greg said and spread both arms. 'The chances of us _all _being Lestrades is pretty slim, especially considering the amount of men my mum dated whenever the old man was outta town. I reckon me and Ryley are the only Lestrades; everyone else looks like Mum or someone else.'

Sherlock didn't know what to say and looked to Mycroft for help.

'I'm not getting involved,' Mycroft said. 'Don't play "Who Had the Shittiest Childhood" with Gregory, because you'll lose.'

Sherlock pressed his lips together, eyeing Mycroft carefully, but he didn't say anything. He was no doubt thinking the same thing the older Holmes was; the two had had _very _different childhoods.

'Hey, Myc, wanna help me cut the chicken?' Greg asked. 'There's three breasts here; it goes outta date... huh, today, would you look at that.'

'You're using expired poultry?' Sherlock demanded, twisting in the armchair to glare at Greg.

'Goes outta date _today_, Sherlock,' Greg said. 'It's just an estimate. What, you think the chicken goes from good to off at midnight exactly?' He snorted and went back to cutting up the rather limp vegetables that had been sitting in the fridge for a good week. They'd be fine once cooked and covered in spicy sauce.

Sherlock scowled but twisted back around to look at Noah, who'd finally let go of Mycroft's shirt and was chewing on his papa's finger.

'Can you hold Noah while I help Gregory?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock seemed to go from mildly annoyed to freaking out in three seconds flat, but Mycroft paid him no mind. Holding a baby wasn't that difficult, and Noah could sit up by himself. Before Sherlock could say no, Mycroft had plopped the baby on his lap, placed one of Sherlock's hands on Noah's back, the other on his hip, and kissed Noah on the head.

'Get to know your Uncle Sherly,' Mycroft said and walked towards the kitchen.

'Mycroft! Mycroft, come back!' Sherlock whined.

'Get to know your nephew, Uncle Sherly,' Greg snickered.

'I hate you both,' Sherlock scowled but eased himself back slowly and kept his hands firmly where Mycroft had placed them.

'You sure he'll be okay?' Greg murmured when Mycroft joined him.

'Sherlock's fine,' Mycroft replied.

'I was talkin' about Noah,' Greg said and Mycroft snorted. 'It ain't funny.'

'He's two feet away, Gregory; they'll both be fine.'

'Hey, _you're _the one who didn't wanna talk to him,' the brunette reminded Mycroft. 'And suddenly you're handin' your son over?'

Mycroft just shrugged one shoulder as he started cutting the fat from the chicken Greg had thawed. He wasn't an idiot; he knew he and Sherlock would never have the relationship they'd once had. Too much had changed; too much had been broken.

But if there was even a slim chance of Mycroft getting his little brother back in his life, he'd take it; threats and snarky comments included.

Unless, of course, Sherlock proved to be a danger to Noah. Then Mycroft would personally kick his brother's arse.

Sherlock, though, seemed fine on the armchair, even bouncing Noah a little. He mostly stared at him, no doubt trying to work out what Noah's biological father had looked like. All Ryley had said was he was older, black hair and brown eyes, and _great _in bed (Greg really hadn't needed to hear that last part, and Mycroft too would have survived without that little titbit).

Noah was his usual charming self; he drooled, he showed Sherlock his gums, he chewed on his fingers and toes, Sherlock's fingers, and the buttons on Sherlock's coat. Watching Sherlock tell a baby to "cease that action immediately!" was going in Mycroft's top five favourite stupid things Sherlock had uttered in his life. The first being the time Sherlock had, rather scathingly, told a dog to stop sniffing his shoe. The result of that conversation was Sherlock walking home with one shoe.

Dinner was almost ready when peels of laughter reached Mycroft and Greg's ears. The parents turned to see Sherlock scowling at Noah.

'Why are you making that noise?' he demanded.

Noah giggled and clapped his hands together.

'What?' Sherlock growled, brows furrowed.

Noah just laughed harder and bounced, little feet kicking up and down.

'Mycroft, your spawn's laughing at me!' Sherlock snarled.

'S'cause you're funny looking,' Greg said immediately.

Mycroft slapped him with the hand towel he was holding and left the rice to boil as he walked back to his son and brother.

'Why's my little man laughing?' Mycroft asked as he reached them. 'Did Uncle Sherly do something silly?'

'Stop calling me that!' Sherlock hissed, his entire face scrunching up in displeasure.

It made Noah laugh until his whole body was shaking, and Mycroft raised both eyebrows.

'Huh,' he commented, 'it seems you _are _doing something silly.'

'I am not!' Sherlock denied- and his face scrunched up, and Noah laughed, and Mycroft smirked while Greg started making faces in the kitchen. 'Mycroft, tell the boy to stop!' Sherlock ordered.

'Yes, sir,' Mycroft saluted, followed by an eye roll. 'He's seven months old, Sherlock; I can't order him to do anything.'

'Then how do I stop him?' Sherlock demanded.

'Stop making funny faces and he'll stop laughing,' Mycroft shrugged.

'I hate you, all of you,' Sherlock seethed. Noah, of course, laughed.

Mycroft left his brother to suffer until dinner was ready. Then he took his son back- much to Sherlock's relief- to feed him before putting him down for a nap.

Sherlock sat at the small table with Gregory, who started eating immediately while Mycroft walked upstairs.

'You're not waiting for Mycroft?' Sherlock asked.

'He can put Noah down by himself,' Greg replied. 'If he needs help, he'll shout. After I eat I'll go up there, kiss my kid goodnight, and head off to start my shit at the club 'round the corner.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'You work at a club? Mycroft told me you waited tables and played in bands.'

'Well... yeah,' Greg nodded and popped another piece of chicken into his mouth. He chewed quickly and swallowed before adding, 'But I can pick up a few shifts at the local club, either as security or a bartender. Pay's good, I've done it before, and we need the cash, so...' he shrugged.

'I forgot you were working tonight,' Mycroft sighed as he re-joined them.

'Noah drop off alright?' Greg asked.

The red-head nodded. 'I think Sherlock's amazingly funny face tired him out.'

'You're always _so_ funny,' Sherlock spat and speared a piece of chicken on his fork viciously.

'I am to entertain, brother dear,' Mycroft replied.

They fell into silence after that, and Mycroft would be lying if he said it wasn't awkward. Usually he and Gregory would exchange stories about their days, but neither made an attempt to start a conversation, and Sherlock seemed happy to poke suspiciously at his dinner. Mycroft noted that he still didn't fancy eating; he'd been picky when he was younger, too.

When the three had eaten their fill Greg went to kitchen to put away the leftovers, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft at the table.

'A friend's picking me up from outside,' Sherlock said and slipped his iPhone into his coat pocket.

'Okay,' Mycroft said, standing and leading his brother to the front door.

'Seeya, Sherlock,' Greg called.

Sherlock just nodded.

Mycroft walked his brother downstairs and outside. The day hadn't been a complete failure; Gregory had gone into over-protective mother mode, which Mycroft had expected, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to hold Noah, which Mycroft had also suspected. But there hadn't been any shouting or punches thrown; so Mycroft would call it a success.

Now that they were alone, Sherlock's posture eased a little; some of the tension drained from his shoulders. Mycroft wouldn't even begin to wonder why Sherlock felt the need to put on a show for Gregory. He'd just get a few foul words for his effort.

The siblings stood in silence as they waited for Sherlock's friend- again, Mycroft wasn't going to question why Sherlock had a friend old enough to drive- and they had a cigarette each before a black car pulled up to the kerb.

'So...' Sherlock cleared his throat and flicked his butt across the pavement. 'This... was... you know,' Sherlock settled on saying.

Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, it was.'

'I'll...' Sherlock frowned down at his shoes.

'I'll call you,' Mycroft said. The teenager looked up at him. 'I promise,' Mycroft added.

Sherlock nodded jerkily and turned, getting into the car without another word. Mycroft stood on the cold street until the car disappeared around a corner, and then went back inside.

Gregory was on the couch, already dressed for his shift at the club; black slacks and a black button-up shirt. His hair had been styled into some form of neatness that would unravel five minutes after Gregory left the flat, but he still tried; that had to count for something.

Mycroft groaned and flopped onto the couch. 'Why do you have to work?' he sighed.

''Cause we haven't won the lottery,' Greg stated. The red-head snorted. 'So... that didn't go too bad.'

'Mm.'

'You reckon he'll come back?' Greg asked.

Mycroft shrugged. 'I said I'd call him.'

'Will you?'

'Yes!' Mycroft snapped. Greg just raised both eyebrows. 'I promised,' Mycroft added.

Greg nodded. 'Fair enough.' They fell into silence, both staring at the blank TV and mulling over Sherlock's visit.

'Do you suppose there are any happy families out there?' Mycroft asked suddenly.

'Dunno... probably,' Greg shrugged. 'Maybe kids with two parents who care, or even just one. They might not have family dinners, but they probably know about each others' days, their favourite foods and TV shows... they, you know, talk... don't throw bricks at each other.'

Mycroft closed his eyes at that memory. Greg had climbed through his bedroom window, half his face covered in blood that had quickly soaked through his shirt. Greg had refused a trip to the hospital and still had an impressive scar across the right side of his scalp. Mycroft was just glad Greg's dad didn't have better aim when he was drunk.

'Cheer up, love,' the brunette said, nudging Mycroft with one shoulder. 'Could be worse.'

'How?' Mycroft asked.

'Could still be living at Holmes Manor.'

Mycroft snorted and shook his head, but turned and pressed a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's lips. He'd rather be here, in his small flat, with Gregory and Noah, than back at Holmes Manor with his parents. He missed Sherlock; he didn't miss his parents, or his old school, or the town. Like he'd told Sherlock; the place had been suffocating him, slowly but surely.

'You know, it doesn't matter if we didn't have happy families growing up,' Greg mused. 'We're making our own; you, me, and Noah. We love Noah for who he is, and he'll always know that. He'll grow up knowing both his parents love him, and he'll never even have to _think _about doing some of the crap we've done.'

'I'd die before I let that happen,' Mycroft nodded.

'It won't,' Greg promised.

Mycroft smiled and Greg grabbed his hand, giving it squeeze. Mycroft looked down at their joined hands and studied the little scars they both had; scrapes from heavy lifting, thin lines from climbing fences, bruises that had somehow scared their skin lighter colours, and large scars across both their hands that had been courtesy of a bar fight when they'd first started working at _Ryan's_.

'We'll never have the relationship we used to,' Mycroft commented suddenly. Greg didn't have to ask who he was talking about. 'But it was falling apart before Siger found out I'm gay. We're... too similar, yet too different.'

'Yeah, well siblings are like that,' Greg said. 'At least you're talkin'; that's good.' Mycroft hummed. 'Hey, it's more than I've got,' Greg continued. 'I've only seen one of my siblings- one out of _six_- in the past four years. And she was eight months pregnant and asked me to take her goddamn baby.'

'I'm glad she did,' Mycroft said and tilted his head so he could see the vague outline of Noah's cot upstairs.

'Yeah, me too,' Greg agreed quickly. 'Fuck, Myc, my life'd be empty without Noah.'

Mycroft smiled; he knew the feeling.

'But as soon as the paperwork had cleared, Ryley took off home again. She said she'd rather be an aunt than a mum, but she hasn't visited- hell, she hasn't even called. Beth, Daniel and Joshua all live within five minutes of Ryley, and not one of them called or visited to meet Noah. Daniel's got a goddamn daughter I've never met; my niece, Myc, and she'd be... what, two? Three?'

'You could always go to them,' Mycroft pointed out.

Greg shook his head roughly. 'No, _fuck no_. I can't go back there, Myc. I... when we skipped town, I fucking swore to myself I'd never go back. I don't care what the fuck it's for, I ain't steppin' foot in that place ever again.'

Mycroft just nodded. He understood completely. Nothing, baring Sherlock falling deathly ill, could get Mycroft to set foot in Holmes Manor again. He hadn't gone back for Siger's funeral (not that he'd even know the old man died, Ryley had told him a year after the fact) and he wouldn't go back for his mother's either. The place held too many horrible memories, and Mycroft would get sucked back in if he went back.

'Even if I did go back,' Greg continued after a moment, 'me and my siblings... nah, we were never close, not one of us. Liam tried his best, but we were all too stubborn and fucked up to listen to him. We got used to having no one in charge, we wouldn't have listened to Liam if someone had paid us. Between mum not caring, and dad being a fucking violent dickhead, we all found our own ways of coping, and... it wasn't with each other. I never had a close relationship with any of them.'

Greg turned to look at Mycroft, and Mycroft titled his head slightly to return the gaze.

'You and Sherlock were close, once... you can't get that back, but... you can get somethin'. That's worth fightin' for, yeah?'

'Yeah,' Mycroft nodded. He leaned forward to kiss Greg softly, enjoying the gentle press of lips, the warm hand that was suddenly stroking his cheek. 'Love you,' he said when they broke apart.

'Love you too,' Greg said before kissing him again. This one was all heat and tongue, teeth nipping and lips sucking, and Mycroft groaned into Greg's mouth. He grabbed Greg's shirt to tug him closer, only for the older man to pry himself free and stand.

'I fucking hate you!' Mycroft groaned, head tilting back to rest on the sofa.

'I thought you loved me,' Greg pouted.

'I loved you before you got me hard and then fucked off to work,' Mycroft growled.

Greg snickered. 'Nah, you know you love me.'

'Hate you.'

'Do not.'

'I very much do, Gregory.'

'No.'

'I. Hate. _You_.'

'You said it wrong, Myc,' Greg said and Mycroft lifted his head to stare at his boyfriend. 'It's pronounced _looove_ not _haate_. Say it with me-'

'No.'

'You're a fucker,' Greg poked his tongue out, and ducked down for a sneaky kiss before heading for the door.

'What time do you get off?' Mycroft asked.

'Two in the goddamn morning,' Greg grumbled from the hallway. 'Three if I need to help with cleaning or anything.'

'Do it if it gets us some extra money,' Mycroft said.

'Yeah, yeah,' Greg said. He re-appeared wearing Mycroft's leather jacket. Well, it was both of theirs, really. They shared most of their clothes. 'You working the bar or studio tomorrow?'

'I'm heading into the studio early, around seven, to finish a painting that's due at three. Then to _Ryan's _from ten to five, back home for some lunch, and then _Ryan's _again from eight to midnight. I picked up Sam's shift; she cancelled again.'

'Fuckin' Sam,' Greg muttered.

'More money for us,' Mycroft shrugged.

Greg just hummed and crossed back over to Mycroft to kiss him again. 'Don't stay up late, 'kay? I wanna find at least half-an-hour sometime this week to get my freak on with you.'

'You're such a weirdo,' Mycroft chuckled and cupped Greg's cheek for another quick kiss. When they broke apart he slapped Greg's face gently and said, 'Go before I change my mind and fuck you over the couch.'

Greg shivered and licked his lips. 'Not fair, Mycroft.'

'Payback's a bitch, Gregory,' Mycroft smirked.

'Oh, how I've corrupted you,' Greg hummed before winking. 'I love it.'

'And I love _you_.'

'Hey, you got it right!'

'Go, Gregory, or I will seriously change my mind.'

'Okay, okay,' Greg said. After one last kiss he darted for the door, waving over his back. 'Watch the stars for me, babe!'

Mycroft chuckled and heard the front door shut, Gregory locking it behind him. He stayed sitting on the sofa, staring at the blank television. Mycroft needed a shower, followed by bed. He'd never been a morning person, and he had to get up at five-thirty so he had enough time to get some coffee into himself, maybe a piece of toast too, and then get over to the studio to finish the painting.

Mycroft sighed and stood, stretching and hearing various bones crack. As he walked into the small bathroom he thought about what Gregory had said.

Unlike Gregory's siblings, at least Sherlock was trying. Which meant he _did _want _some _type of relationship with his brother, even if it was filled with tension and awkward silences.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes; he was too tired, and he'd thought about Sherlock enough over the course of the day. He'd call and soon and see what happened; one step at a time, and all that.


	4. Past, Present and Future Part I

**Chapter Four: Past, Present and Future Part I**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long wait, but I only have a vague idea of where this story is going... and I've got about 10 other WIPs that I should update but haven't in a while. I never learn my lesson.

Anyway, enjoy.

{Dreamer}

* * *

Mycroft smiled when Noah squealed from across the bar. He was sitting in a high chair, one that Ross Ryan- the owner of the pub- had had lying around in his spare room for when his niece had visited when she was a baby. The man himself- who preferred to be called Ryan- was making faces while trying to get Noah to eat, but Noah seemed to prefer smacking his hands against his bowl and trying to make a grab for Ryan's beer.

'No, no, no; that's for adults, not little men like you,' Ryan said.

Noah stared at him, and Mycroft chuckled softly from where he was wiping down the bar. Gregory looked at him just like that all the time when he didn't get his own way. Mycroft finished wiping down the wood and leaned back to watch as Ryan got Noah to eat again.

Noah smacked his lips together and showed Ryan his gums and the few teeth he had. God, he looked so much like Gregory had when he was younger. Mycroft felt his heart clench and he looked down. He and Gregory had a lot to smile about lately; food, a roof over their heads, and Noah, the very best thing that had ever happened to Mycroft.

But back in the beginning, when they'd first set out to escape their lives and be together... neither of them had smiled much in the beginning.

{oOo}

_**Four Years Ago...**_

Mycroft leaned back against the building as he soaked up the midday sun. The nights were getting colder and colder- the days, too- and soon enough winter would hit London. Mycroft wasn't sure what he and Greg would do to stay warm. The few pieces of fabric and clothing they had could only do so much.

Something blocked the sun and Mycroft peeled his eyes open, ready to shuffle along in case it was a police officer telling him to scram. Mycroft knew he looked as homeless as he was; his hair was messy, his face dirty and starting to show stubble, and his clothes were torn and filthy. Sleeping in alleys and on park benches, and not showering for two weeks, would do that to a person.

But it was just Greg, grinning from ear-to-ear, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he shifted against the brick wall, trying to get comfortable. 'What are you smiling about?' he asked.

Gregory hadn't really smiled since the first week they'd run away from home. Back then they'd had money, and freedom, and each other. Now, the money was gone, half their things had been stolen, and they were living day by day on stolen change and vending machine crisps. Mycroft hadn't had a proper meal in two and a half weeks and his stomach was aching.

As Greg sat beside his boyfriend, Mycroft closed his eyes again. Greg was used to going without, but Mycroft wasn't, at least not until now. No matter how terrible Mycroft's parents had been, he'd always had food and money. Sometimes Greg's dad wouldn't send money home, and his brothers and sisters would fight over what food was left until it was all gone. Then, Greg would be forced to steal food from school or people walking down the street.

'So, you know how I'm good at nicking shit, yeah?' Greg said, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts.

'Mm,' Mycroft hummed. He was too tired and sore and _hungry _to bother giving Greg his full attention. Later, when they were curled up in a cocoon of filthy blankets and cardboard boxes, Mycroft would apologise. Right now, he just wanted the sun to warm him up and take away his pain.

'Right,' Greg cleared his throat, 'well I've been watchin' the McDonalds across the road.' He pointed, not that Mycroft saw, and continued. 'So they're pretty fucked from what I've seen; always messin' up the orders, meaning people gotta go back in. And half the people sit down only to realise they didn't grab napkins and shit.

'So,' Greg clapped his hands together. 'We wait until someone goes for some napkins or straws, I run into 'em, and you grab their food. Hey presto, we've got some fuckin' dinner.'

_That _got Mycroft's attention and he tilted his head forward as he opened his eyes. 'Dinner?' he questioned and looked at Greg.

'Yup,' Greg nodded, still grinning. 'I'll also see if I can grab someone's wallet. Everyone carries a few pounds, right?'

Mycroft wet his lips and looked across the road. The McDonalds was bustling with activity, and Mycroft could practically smell the greasy food from where he was sitting. God, real food sounded like heaven right then. Back when Mycroft had been living at home, he'd rarely indulged in fast food. He'd been chubby from four-years-old right up to seventeen-years-old.

But living on the streets, rarely eating, and having to walk or run everywhere tended to make one shed a fair few pounds. Mycroft was skinnier then he'd ever been, Gregory too. It wasn't healthy; they were practically skin and bones, the only muscles they possessed were from all the exercise they did.

Mycroft's stomach clenched painfully at the thought of food, and for a minute Mycroft was sure he was going to throw up. He swallowed down the bile and looked at Greg, who was waiting patiently. If they didn't eat soon, they'd be too weak to do anything.

'Okay,' Mycroft nodded. 'Let's do it.'

'Awesome,' Greg grinned. He jumped to his feet and pulled Mycroft up, and Mycroft had to fight off a wave of nausea. How long had it been since he'd eaten that packet of crisps he'd stolen from a school girl's blazer pocket? 'You alright?' Greg asked as Mycroft picked up their backpacks- they only things they had left from when they'd run away, besides some blankets and spare clothes they'd hidden in an alley.

'I'm fine,' Mycroft said. He pulled his bag on and Greg did the same. 'Let's just do this.'

'Okay,' the older boy said. 'So, I'll draw everyone's attention, you grab the food and walk away. If someone shouts, you run, okay? Don't stop until you reach that park we slept in the other night. If no one shouts, just walk really fast and I'll meet you there, 'kay?'

Mycroft nodded.

'I'll try get some money while I'm at it,' Greg added as an after thought.

They stopped just outside the McDonalds, and pretended to be debating whether or not to eat there. If anyone had really been paying attention, they would have seen how filthy and skinny they were and know that they had zero money. But people were too busy with their own lives and well-being to care about two homeless kids.

The couple stood there for about five minutes before Greg nudged his boyfriend. 'That guy,' he said and pointed.

Mycroft turned to see an overweight man in a business suit getting up from a table halfway between them and the far wall. He was heading in their direction, and Mycroft turned to see the straws and napkins behind them.

'You go grab the food, I'll distract him,' Greg ordered. Before Mycroft could say anything, Greg had scampered away. Mycroft swallowed down his fear and pushed through the crowd, none of which paid him any attention. He'd just reached the man's table when he heard a shout from behind him.

Mycroft turned only briefly to see that Greg had spilled a drink over the man's suit (_picked it up from an empty table,_ Mycroft's brain supplied). Greg was apologising profusely and waving his hands about, his voice and actions drawing everyone's attention.

Seeing the small window of opportunity, Mycroft casually grabbed the man's food from the table- bagged, thankfully- and made his way towards the doors. He bumped into someone on his way out but didn't stop or look back. He just kept walking, his entire body tense as he waited for someone to shout and start chasing him.

But nobody did, and Mycroft's body slowly unwound as he made his way to the park. There were only a few benches clear and he chose one directly in the sun before sitting to wait for Gregory.

Ten minutes after sitting his boyfriend came running over, grinning broadly. 'You go alright?' he asked.

Mycroft nodded and a smile overtook his face as he showed Greg the bag.

'Awesome,' Greg shouted and kissed Mycroft quickly before sitting. 'And guess what,' the brunet waggled his eyebrows as he dug into his jeans pocket. Mycroft's grin widened when Greg pulled out a fistful of money.

'Where'd you get that?' Mycroft asked.

'The dude in the suit started shouting that I'd be paying his dry cleaning bill, I told him to shove it. Eventually the manager escorted me out. Stole his wallet, and some lady's purse. I dropped the wallets in the bin but took the money.'

He and Mycroft quickly counted the money and found they had twenty-five pounds and some change. That would buy them a few cans of food, which would last them a good two weeks if they only ate one can a day between them.

Mycroft kissed Greg softly, cupping his dirty, stubble-covered cheek in one hand. When they broke apart Greg stared at him. 'I love you,' Mycroft said warmly.

Greg chuckled. 'Love you too,' he said. He drew back and they split the money between them- just in case one of them lost it or got robbed- before Greg pulled the McDonalds bag open. 'Now, let's eat,' he grinned and Mycroft laughed.

A large Quarter Pounder meal and two cheeseburgers.

The two teenagers were in heaven.

{oOo}

_**Now...**_

'What're you daydreaming about?' Ryan said from beside Mycroft.

The red-head jumped and turned away from the register to see the older man pouring himself a fresh beer from the tap. 'Sorry, I was just... thinking,' Mycroft settled on.

Ryan nodded. 'Where's Greg at?'

'Playing a gig for some birthday party,' Mycroft answered. 'Why?'

'What time's he gonna get home?' Ryan asked instead of answering.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Probably not until later tonight.'

'Right,' Ryan nodded. 'You and Noah stay here for dinner, alright? I'll whip up some steak- you probably haven't had steak since the last time I fed it to you.'

'What? No, Ryan, you don't have to do that,' Mycroft was quick to say. Despite how much Ryan had helped him and Greg in the past, Mycroft didn't want anybody's charity. He had money now, and food, too. He didn't need Ryan to feed him.

'We're family, Mycroft,' Ryan said, staring at the young man. 'You and Greg are like the sons I never had. So if I wanna cook some damn steak and eat with you, you'd better shut the fuck up and eat, alright?'

Mycroft pursed his lips but could tell that Ryan wasn't going to back down. So he sighed and nodded. 'Okay, yes; I'd be happy to stay.'

Ryan beamed and clapped Mycroft on the shoulder. 'Excellent. You run upstairs and grab some containers for the leftovers; they'll sit in the fridge for a day or two, you and Greg can eat 'em later.'

Mycroft just nodded and Ryan went to watch Noah while Mycroft headed upstairs. Ryan had lived above his pub since he'd bought the building thirty or so years ago- long before Mycroft was even born. It wasn't a large flat, but there were two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen; it was bigger than Mycroft and Greg's place, and just as warm.

Mycroft had spent many nights in Ryan's spare bedroom, Gregory too; back when it'd got too cold to sleep on the streets and Ryan had forced them to stay, and later when they'd been working too long and practically passed out before their shifts were over.

Mycroft made his way into the kitchen and opened one of the cupboard doors. Tupperware containers of all sizes were stacked neatly and Mycroft took a few, having no idea how much food Ryan would try to get him to take home. Ryan had always been a bit over-protective of the two younger men, and now that Noah was in the picture he'd gotten worse.

Not that Mycroft could complain. Like he'd always said; without Ryan, he and Gregory would be dead.

{oOo}

_**Four Years Ago...**_

Mycroft always felt bad when he saw the wallets stuffed with photos; pictures of kids posing for school photos, or playing sports, or babies newly brought home from the hospital. But the need to eat far outweighed Mycroft's guilt, and each time he tossed the wallet- with credit cards still inside- in the closest bin as he pocketed the cash.

Mycroft stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets and shivered as he walked down the street. The hood was down, making his red hair flash in the artificial light pouring from shop windows and street lamps. Keeping his face visible put people at ease, which made it easier for Mycroft to pickpocket them.

Usually he and Greg worked the tube- only ever stealing one or two wallets before getting off and hopping aboard another train. And even then they only did it two or three days in a row before moving on. Both of them were still under eighteen; if they were caught, and the cops somehow found out who they were, they'd be sent back home.

Mycroft shivered at the thought and hurried across the road, dodging between cars waiting for the light to go green. He ducked into a small store and bought a few cans of food, a loaf of bread, and two bottles of water. Greg had lost his last bottle, and Mycroft had dropped his when they'd been chased off when they were "dumpster diving" as Gregory called it.

Mycroft walked back out into the cold and kept his eyes and ears open as he made his way down side-streets and through half-rotted gardens. He and Greg had stumbled across an abandoned building that had once been three shops separated by inner-walls. The couple had spent an entire week sitting across the road in the cold and keeping an eye on the building to see if any other squatters had made it their home, or if anyone was planning on redeveloping the shops.

Not one person had ever stopped to look at the building during the day, nor had anyone climbed through one of the broken back windows to stay the night. So now Mycroft and Greg were making it their "home", for lack of a better word. Greg was already there, having spent most of the day cleaning out a place for him and Mycroft to sleep, as well as bringing in a drum and scraps so they could build a fire.

Mycroft had spent his day stealing food from the various people wandering the park, and later stealing wallets on the tube and streets. He and Greg had enough food and money to last them a good two or three weeks if they didn't get robbed, so Mycroft was in high spirits as he crept across the road and through the mesh fence surrounding the dilapidated shops.

He made sure to keep his footsteps light and his head down as he made his way around the building. Three doors led into the separate shops, all completely hidden by growing trees, bushes, as well as abandoned trolleys and other junk. Greg had managed to cut a way through the bushes and trees and now he and Mycroft could slip through the door. It was, hopefully, invisible to anyone who glanced at it.

Mycroft walked up to the door and tapped twice, softly, before knocking two more times. He waited only a few seconds before Greg pulled the door open. The brunet's eyes ran over Mycroft from head to toe, no doubt checking for any injuries. Mycroft was fine, apart from a bruise on his left cheek that he'd gotten three days ago (thieves didn't like it when their targets fought back).

'You alright?' Greg asked as he ushered Mycroft in and shut the door.

'I'm fine,' Mycroft said. He placed the shopping bag on the counter Greg had cleared. It looked like this shop had once been a fish and chip joint. There was a small kitchen, which he and Greg were standing in, as well as a very small office, and the main shop had a counter, glass display case, and tables stacked up against the wall. It was old and rotting, there was dust and grime and dirt everywhere, and the cold seeped in from the broken windows in the kitchen.

But it was better than a dark alley any day.

'I got the fire set up,' Greg said and gestured for Mycroft to follow him across the small kitchen. Greg had filled the sink with bits of wood, paper, and old phone books. 'As long as he we don't burn too much stuff, the smoke should go out through the windows,' Greg said. 'I also found this.' He grabbed a slightly rusted pot from the bench beside the sink and grinned widely at Mycroft.

Mycroft laughed and tugged Greg in for a kiss. 'You're brilliant, did you know that?'

''Course I am,' Greg beamed. 'Now go cover up the windows a bit so no one sees the fire. Can't be too careful.'

Mycroft nodded and did as asked, using newspaper and a stick of glue Greg had picked up from somewhere to cover what was left of the glass. He also used duct tape- again, he had no idea where Greg had stolen it from- to cover the bigger holes. He left one of the windows uncovered to allow the smoke to escape, and when he walked back to Greg the older boy had poured a can of meatballs and rice into the pot. He was stirring it with the only spoon they owned, and pecked Mycroft on the cheek when the red-head approached him.

'I'll go pack away the other food,' Mycroft said, kissing Greg again before walking through the shop.

By the time Mycroft had divided the soup, water, and money between his and Greg's bags, Greg was calling him back in for dinner. Mycroft's stomach growled and he hopped up onto the table opposite the sink to sit beside Greg. Greg used the spoon to toss a meatball into his mouth and swore as the heated meat hit his tongue.

Mycroft chuckled and took the spoon off his flailing boyfriend. He dipped it into the pot and blew across the top before shovelling the sauce, rice, and carrot into his mouth. It was hot and rich and _of so good_. Mycroft was sure he'd never tasted anything better. Cold soup was fine; Mycroft could live with cold soup, and he had been for the past week and a bit. But hot soup? Yes please.

'You said you got bread?' Greg asked after he'd swallowed, his face red and tongue poked out.

Mycroft mumbled an affirmative through his mouthful, and passed Greg the spoon before hopping back down and going to fetch the bread.

When he got back, a loaf of bread in one had, a bottle of water in the other, Greg groaned and said, 'I love you.'

Mycroft shook his head and opened the bread, passing Greg three slices. Bread was usually the only thing they indulged in; they couldn't keep it forever, and they'd both found that it usually went mouldy and stale after four or five days. Stale bread was okay toasted, but it made Mycroft gag when he forced himself to eat it.

So they usually made sure to eat the entire loaf within three or so days.

Mycroft took three pieces out for himself and tossed the load beside the fire before sitting back beside Greg. They fell into silence as they ate, using their fingers or the spoon to scoop soup onto their pieces of bread. The fire was burning merrily and bathed the small kitchen in light, and the two teenagers in warmth.

Soon the two had finished the pot of soup and Greg groaned when he put it aside. Mycroft felt so very full and it was a lovely feeling. He was well-fed, warm, and had a sort-of safe place to sleep tonight. Plus, Gregory was there; what more could Mycroft ask for?

'I'm gonna try and get some more money tomorrow morning,' Greg murmured tiredly from beside the red-head.

'Just because we have food, doesn't mean we should slack off,' Mycroft nodded in agreement. 'I'll hit the usual vending machines.' The library had been a great source of knowledge; not only did it teach the two about dumpster diving, but it had taught them how to break into cars (not that they wanted the car, just the food and/or money left inside them) as well as vending machines. They would have starved by now without the free internet at the library.

'We should try to get some sleep if we're gonna get up early,' Greg yawned.

Mycroft nodded and stood, while Greg went to use some of the water Mycroft had bought to clean their pot and spoon. They could always re-fill the bottles in public restrooms.

Greg would have to get up fairly early to catch the morning crowd, all rushing to get to work or school. Mycroft could sleep in a bit if he wanted and wait until everyone was occupied with their jobs to try and break-in to various cars and vending machines.

Later he'd take the night shift on the tube; pickpocketing people exhausted from a long day at work, just dying to get home. And Greg would either try and steal food from people's bags or fast-food restaurants.

Both of them would keep an eye out for spare blankets and clothes. They now had a bigger collection then they'd had when they first came to London, but they were always looking to get more warm clothing.


End file.
